Memoirs from a Hotel Bar

Here I am in the "Amourath 1819" bar at the Hyatt Regency in Sacramento, California.  I am three vodka martinis, one cobb salad, and a bunch of hickory-smoked walnuts into a solitary evening of self-contemplation.  I came to Sacramento, a few hundred miles from home, with a small entourage of staff who would probably prefer to avoid me at dinner time, but would likely acquiesce if I'd invited them to a company-paid-for dinner.  As good as they are, I wanted to be alone this evening, so I released them to their own whims.

The governor was a no-show for dinner tonight (see below).  Apparently he prefered to spend the evening with his wife and her ambitions.  I met with his underlings, and was told we may reschedule with him for tomorrow.  OK, yeah, whatever, fuck you (that's the vodka talking)...

Anyway, my time in the hotel bar, watching passers-by and wandering around the internet has been more profound than any solitary confinement in recent memory.  I read about Steve "Croc Hunter" Irwin's final words to his kids before his unexpected death, about a young West Point graduate who met her demise recently in Iraq, and other stories that prompted thoughts about - ok, this is corny and cliche - my place in this world.  I am a father, and that's my proudest and greatest ambition.  My job is not routinely dangerous, but my societal and professional obligations would put me in a personally risky place should catastrophe find its way to Southern California, which it will.  Do I really want to risk my kids remembering me from some distant memory as they grow into adults?  Do I want to devastate my parents with a premature death?  Or should I retreat into a safer career that would allow me to cocoon myself with my family if our region becomes a hazard (think 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, etc.)?

Anyway, that's what's on my mind tonight.

BTW, I just farted and the hot little cocktail waitress is coming towards me.  Shit, who do I blame the smell on...?